\" She handed the ticket seller, a boy that looked to be all of eighteen years old, murder money that she had stolen from Dawn Plote's dead son, five dollars. ‘Moreover, no one will believe any more that Yolande is me when they see this. Why, is the question I would like answered. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. The door closed softly upon her. "But it wants something here. "Ah, I see it all!" he cried, with a quick glance.
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